In Case
by half agony and hope
Summary: "'Leaving you is going to destroy me all over again,' he whispers, leaning his forehead down to rest against hers." After killing Red John, Jane visits Lisbon before heading off the grid.


**AN: So, I should definitely be writing the last few chapters of _When __I Fall_, but I got an idea for this story that would not leave me alone. At any rate, an update for that will be coming shortly, but in the meantime, I hope you enjoy this little oneshot!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.**

**Also: Lyrics are not mine; they belong to Demi Lovato, whose song _In Case _served as the inspiration for this story.**

* * *

In Case

_Strong enough to leave you  
But weak enough to need you  
Cared enough to let you walk away_

It takes a momentous amount of energy just to locate her keys. And even then—after she spends half a minute digging through her purse—keys now in hand, she can't bring herself to open her condo door.

Mentally, physically, and—above all—emotionally exhausted, Teresa Lisbon stands outside her condo and sobs.

Like a rogue chemical reaction in a beaker too small to contain it, her emotions are volatile, bubbling over and spilling into the environment. For once, she doesn't care about being the cool, calm, collected cop. She doesn't try to be Senior Agent Lisbon.

For once, she lets herself be Teresa.

She lets herself be the woman who's just lost the person she loves most in the world.

Lisbon feels the sting of mascara in her eyes and curses herself for buying cheap makeup. She rubs at her face quickly but eventually abandons the effort as hopeless. No matter the tears she manages to wipe away, more just keep falling to replace them.

She manages to calm herself enough to take in the silence around her, broken only by her labored breathing: at least no one has been witness to her meltdown. Her eyes still blurry, she attempts to lift her key to the door but finds that her hands are not steady enough to open the lock.

A fresh wave of tears spills over, and she leans her head forward to rest on the door. She takes several deep breaths and tries again.

This time, her hands do not shake, and the door swings inward.

Lisbon drags herself over the threshold, shutting the door softly behind her. Feeling another wave of exhaustion overcome her, she kicks off her shoes and leans her back against the door, sliding down so that she eventually comes to rest on the ground.

The severity of her heartache hits her then, and—desperate for any distraction to ward it off—she digs through her jacket pockets for her cell phone, realizing belatedly that it has been confiscated by Agent Abbott.

Instead of her phone, her fingers encounter a small piece of paper, so thin that it appears to have been ripped from a Bible.

Bewildered, she takes the paper out and unfolds it, frowning at the darkness in her apartment, which makes the small text difficult to read. In lieu of a Bible verse, however, she encounters oddly familiar, untidy handwriting.

_Don't shoot me_.

Her response is to half-laugh, half-sob. The paper shakes in her hands, and the words blur before her eyes.

"Why the hell would I shoot you, Jane?" she asks the empty apartment, wondering what had caused her partner to leave that particular note in her jacket. Most likely, she reasoned, it was a relic from long ago.

From before Jane had killed Red John.

He'd probably snuck it in her jacket before one of his ridiculous schemes. And she'd probably failed to notice it before now.

She pulls her knees toward her chest, making herself appear as small as possible.

Even when he is gone, Patrick Jane is still playing tricks on her.

There is a faint _creak_ from down the hallway, and Lisbon looks up, every muscle in her body petrified. For a wild second, she swears she can see Red John emerging from the shadows. Her hand automatically goes to the gun she has stored in a drawer by the entryway.

"I'd imagine you'll have a cornucopia of reasons by now, Lisbon."

She freezes mid-grasp as Jane's voice hits her, teasingly answering her earlier question.

Apparently the condo is not as empty as she'd thought.

"_Jane?_" she asks, half-believing his voice is some kind of auditory hallucination to help her cope with his loss.

And he emerges from the shadows down the hall.

The first thing she notices is that he doesn't look at all like her Jane—and she is relieved, because this makes it less likely that she is hallucinating. Instead, the Jane walking towards her is clad in blue jeans and a white t-shirt that hugs his chest, and his golden curls are hidden under a Sacramento Kings baseball cap.

He doesn't say anything as he approaches her slowly, holding out his hands in a pacifying manner. Lisbon feels her muscles strain, and she collapses against the door, her hand over her heart. She doesn't blink as she watches him step forward, almost afraid to close her eyes only to open them and find him gone.

A minute passes, and he finally is in front of her. He kneels down to her eye level but doesn't touch her.

She is relieved to find his breathing as erratic as her own.

Lisbon searches his face, which appears sallow, and his eyes, which are combing over her body wildly.

He opens his arms a fraction of an inch, and she throws herself into him.

The sobs return now, and she doesn't fight them, concentrating instead on Jane's muscular arms around her back and his breath against her cheek.

"_Jane_," she says again—and again, for it is the only word she seems to be able to pronounce.

But she appears to be doing better than he is: after his original sentence, Jane has turned mute, not able to get out another word.

Hours later, it seems, or possibly only seconds, rationality returns, and she pulls back to examine him again. Her hands clasp around his upper arms and she realizes for the first time how cold he seems.

"I think you're in shock, Jane," she says, reaching up to touch his face and finding it cool and clammy.

He leans into her hand and shakes his head. "I'm fine," he says. "It's a perfectly normal reaction to have, considering the circumstances."

She nearly laughs. Yes, if she'd just killed a man, she would be worried if she _weren't_ in shock.

"What are you doing here? You should be far away from Sacramento by now, Jane. If they track you here…"

She isn't worried for herself—for the charges she would face for harboring a murderer—which she knows is stupid but can't quite help. Somehow, her protective instincts towards Jane always win out over self-preservation.

"I had to see you," he says weakly. "I had to make sure you were okay—that you _will_ be okay," he amends.

"Nothing happened to me—I'm fine," she assures him. "And the rest of the team is alright, too. We'll be fine, Jane, as long as you get yourself out of the country."

"I couldn't leave without seeing you," he says. "Maybe it's the stupidest thing I've ever done, not running when I could, but I have no idea when I'm going to see you again. Hell, I don't even know _if_ I'm going to see you again. And I owe you so much, Lisbon—stopping to see you before I leave doesn't even begin to make up for all of that, but at least it's a start, right?"

Lisbon looks in his eyes, which have turned from wild to stormy. "So what's your plan, then? Where are you going?"

He looks at her sadly. "I hope you know how badly I wish I could answer that," he says. "But I can't tell you. If anyone asks, you need to be able to honestly say that you know nothing."

Her mascara begins to sting in her eyes again, and she rubs the makeup away. "But how will I find you? You know...someday?"

He shakes his head. "You won't be able to."

"So this is it? I'm never going to hear from you again?"

His strong hands grip her waist and pull her against him once more. "I'm working on finding a way to write to you. You won't be able to respond, but at least you'll know I'm alright."

She nods against him, finding her panic abate somewhat.

"Why haven't you asked me to come with?" she asks.

"Because I know you'd say yes."

This time she doesn't wipe the tears away, and they fall onto his t-shirt, marking the white cotton.

"Damn it, Jane," she says, touching a finger to his shirt where her teardrops had fallen. "Why did you have to make this so difficult?"

"You know you love me," he says teasingly, falling a little short of his usual bravado.

"You know I do," she agrees quietly, her eyes raising from his t-shirt to his lips. He freezes against her. She continues on. "Since I'm not going to get another chance to say it, I figured I'd better tell you now. You're loved—you're _so_ loved, Jane. You're so loved that sometimes it hurts. And this is definitely one of those times."

"Leaving you is going to destroy me all over again," he whispers, leaning his forehead down to rest against hers.

"How much time do we have?"

He checks her watch. "I meet my ride at a rendezvous point at four in the morning—so, about six hours."

She looks up at him, questioning. "Then we shouldn't waste any more of it, right?"

Steely eyes are her answer. He leans down to kiss her, his lips gentle and tender against hers.

"Right."

* * *

Late that night—or early the next day, she doesn't know which—she fastens the small, gold cross necklace she'd worn when she first met him around his neck. He looks at her, eyes watery simultaneously with happiness and sorrow, and his skin is hot against hers.

"Just in case," she says, and they don't speak for a long time.

* * *

When she wakes up the next morning, he is gone.


End file.
